


A Spoonful of Sun

by tmelange



Category: DCU - Comicverse, Superman (Comics)
Genre: All-Star Superman, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-29
Updated: 2011-07-29
Packaged: 2017-10-21 22:28:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/230549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tmelange/pseuds/tmelange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All-Star Superman-verse - Clark Kent has to "interview" his best friend Bruce Wayne and has to find a way to talk to Bruce about his solar overload/impending death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Spoonful of Sun

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2006.
> 
> Also, "a spoonful of sun" comes from All-Star Superman #1 and is what the scientists from the first manned sun mission were trying to collect before Luthor's trap sprung. Some knowledge of the issue would be helpful but probably is not necessary.

Clark Kent tripped over his own feet, juggling his shoulder bag, building pass, notepad, recorder, and coffee cup in a mad, bumbling attempt to avoid careening into an intern who was distributing mail to the prestigious offices on the uppermost floor of WayneTower. He was only partially successful, landing in a heap of coffee-soaked papers in front of the receptionist's desk but managing to prevent the young intern from landing on the floor beside him. As the intern huffed and glared, Clark scrambled to settle his glasses on the bridge of his nose and get to his feet, while attempting to rescue what he could of his notepad and files from the wet mess. He only slipped once.

The sixty-one-year-old receptionist, with her steel gray hair in a bun and her plastic-framed glasses—whom he knew well from many prior visits to the headquarters of Wayne Enterprises over the years—merely looked down her nose at him and sighed. She pressed a button.

"Mr. Wayne, Mr. Kent is here."

Bruce Wayne's voice answered after a pause, deep and decisive. "Send him in."

Clark smiled apologetically. "Gee, Mrs. Abernathy, I'm so sorry about the mess. If you give me that, I'll—"

The receptionist swatted at him and stopped his attempt to grab her box of Kleenex with an ominous glare. Again, she pressed a button.

"Maintenance, we are being graced with another visit by Mr. Kent. Send help immediately."

The receptionist ended her brief transmission and stared at him expectantly. "Mr. Wayne is waiting."

"Right, okay," Clark agreed, shaking his head. "And may I say you're looking quite swell today, Mrs. Abernathy."

"You may not."

Clark coughed. "Right. I'll just go in then."

Clark found himself standing in front of the impressive mahogany doors that led to Bruce Wayne's executive office suite. Although Bruce was his best friend, Clark had been dreading this meeting for days. How exactly did you tell your best friend that you were dying?

Clark's answer—the only one that really made any sense to him—was not to. What use was a maudlin farewell drama to a man like Bruce who valued action and disdained emotional displays? What use was anything to Bruce that distracted him from his mission? Clark had little that he could leave his friend to help him with his struggle in the days he would no longer be…around, in person, to lend a hand, but the least he could do was to make the break quick and easy.

Which was why today's performance was so important. It was hard to fool a man like Bruce.

Taking a deep breath, Clark placed his hand on the door and pushed.

Bruce was behind his desk, with his back to the door and facing the floor-to-ceiling windows that provided an unparalleled view of the Gotham City skyline. He was talking on the phone. A negligent wave of a hand told Clark he should wait. He wasn't the only one waiting for Mr. Wayne's attention.

A young woman was seated in one of the large chairs in front of the desk. She was clearly another intern, because even in her suit, she looked overmatched by the chair she was sitting in, let alone the rest of the suite's opulent trappings. She smiled hesitantly at Clark but immediately returned her attention to the master of the suite, who had just ended his conversation and swiveled his chair around.

His blue eyes skewered Clark where he was standing. Immediately, Clark could tell—just from Bruce's cool appraisal that swept him from head to feet—that something was wrong. Very, very wrong. Clark cleared his throat, preparing to say…something innocuous to break the tense silence, when Bruce beat him to it.

"Ms. Rodriguez," he said to the intern, "I'd like you to meet Clark Kent, reporter for the _Daily Planet."_ Clark leaned down to shake hands, and Bruce continued, "Mr. Kent, Ms. Rodriguez is one of the interns from our Gotham University program."

"A pleasure," Clark said, nodding.

"Mr. Kent is an old… _acquaintance,"_ Bruce said blandly to the intern, twirling a pen between long, deft fingers. "I promised him…an exclusive."

Clark winced and quickly tried to formulate a back-up plan. Clearly, Bruce…knew about his situation and was not…happy. But how had he found out? The only people who were aware of his condition were the scientists at P.R.O.J.E.C.T. He had been so careful…

He tried not to shuffle his feet as if he'd been called in front of a high school principal, while Bruce dismissed the intern and focused the whole of his considerably intense regard on Clark.

"Sit," Bruce said, motioning to the recently vacated chair. Clark dropped into it gratefully.

They were alone, and usually that signaled the end of their public façade, but, apparently, not this time.

"Mr. Kent, you must be wondering why I called you here."

Clark raised an eyebrow in surprise. _Mr. Kent?_ "I…uh…"

"Of course you are," Bruce continued. He was now tapping his pen on the desk, and it was quite distracting, especially since Clark was sure that the taps weren't just random. Knowing Bruce, they were likely some manifestation of his state of mind in some sort of mental code. But Clark had little time to wonder, as Bruce continued. "Let me assure you this is a matter of gravest urgency." The tapping stopped abruptly. Bruce pushed his chair out from behind the desk and got to his feet, heading to the windows that looked out over a late-afternoon Gotham City and turning his back.

"You see, I've recently been made aware of some startling news, news that will likely have a significant impact on world financial markets, the peace and security of nations, likely the entire world, and…other impacts too numerous to detail. I thought it my civic responsibility to bring such information to the public, so the world can prepare, and I thought of _you,"_ Bruce turned from the window, stared, "my long time… _acquaintance_ from the _Daily Planet._ I thought you would be the best person to bring this information to light."

Clark tried to swallow around the lump in his throat. "Bruce, I—"

"You may be wondering," Bruce interrupted, "what could possibly be so important." He took two strides over to his desk and grabbed a folded newspaper, a copy of the _Daily Planet,_ sitting on top of a stack of paper, and slammed it in the middle of the desk, so the front page headline was visible:

 _Superman Saves First Manned Sun Mission: Astronauts Risk their Lives Trying to Retrieve a Spoonful of Sun_

Bruce whispered, _sotto voce,_ "I have exclusive information that Superman is dying."

Clark got to his feet. "Bruce—"

Bruce raised one finger, halting him. "Of course, the Man of Steel would never confirm such an impending tragedy. Likely, a hero such as himself would prefer to go off into a remote corner of the universe and _die."_ Bruce's voice had descended to a growl on the last word. Again, Clark tried to reach out, tried to explain; he took a step forward, but Bruce took two steps back.

"Apparently," Bruce said, voice distant, eyes flat, "Superman's trip to the sun exposed him to critical levels of stellar radiation, more raw energy than his cells can process efficiently. Scans of his cells show them to be super-saturated with solar radiation and bursting from within. Apoptosis—complete cell death—is imminent. There can be only one eventual outcome, even for _Superman."_ Bruce snarled, "Are you getting all of this, _Mr. Kent?"_ Bruce reached over to his desk, grabbed a file, and threw it at Clark's chest. "The details make the story."

The file bounced off of Clark as if Bruce had thrown the file against a wall, spilling its contents on the floor like a rain of accusations.

"They're looking for a cure."

Bruce nodded. "They're looking for a cure. That's great. _Who the hell are **they?"**_ Gotham's prince turned away with that sudden outburst, seemingly startled by his own vehemence, and again took up contemplation of the Gotham skyline.

Clark put his hands in the pockets of his slacks and took up a position on Bruce's left side.

"How did you find out?"

"Idiot," Bruce spat. "Super intelligent but we're all still waiting for the wizard to bring you a brain." He was still talking to the window. "How could I not _find out?_ I am who I am, and you're the most powerful man on the planet. I'm concerned about you, and watch you, in the same way a businessman watches the stock market. It's a minute-by-minute analysis."

Clark couldn't help the small smile that came to his lips, despite his friend's ire. "You watch me…like you watch the stock market? I'm not sure whether or not I should be flattered." But, apparently, the quip was the wrong thing to say at the wrong time, because Bruce only exploded again.

"Of course, I watch you, you damn fool! You've trusted _me_ with the means to stop you if you should ever go rogue. You've been one of my primary concerns since the day you put that ring in my hand."

Finally, Bruce turned so they were face-to-face, only an arm's distance apart, and his glare was cold, hard. "What did you think, Clark? That I'd simply read about Superman's death in the paper, like everyone else, eulogize you, and move on with my _life?"_ Bruce reached out, punched Clark hard in the shoulder. Of course, it didn't hurt, not even a little, especially since Clark's powers were so far expanded by his exposure to the sun, but it was the symbolism, the fact that Bruce was so angry that he felt he wanted to hit him, that spoke volumes.

"I thought we were friends."

Clark raised his hand, dropped it at Bruce's sharply spiking eyebrows. "We are—"

 _"Then you should have come to me first."_

Bruce glowered, incandescent, a dark sun of anger and frustration, then was gone, across the suite and into the private bathroom, and all Clark could do was wait, respecting his friend's privacy, though his every instinct told him to follow, to use his x-ray vision to see if Bruce was alright, his hearing to listen to Bruce's struggle to accept the inevitable.

Hoping to have a chance to apologize.

When Bruce returned to the main suite, it was with his composure firmly in place, and Clark had the distinct impression that he was now subject to the will of the Bat.

"Bruce, I'm—"

"We don't have time for your apologies, Clark," Bruce said, interrupting. He went to his closet and retrieved his suit jacket and overcoat and shrugged into them.

"But I—"

"Or to explore the nonsensical rationale behind your recent decisions." Properly suited, he walked over to his briefcase, added certain files to it, and closed it with a sharp snap. He started walking towards the door, but when he got abreast of Clark, he paused.

"We don't have…much, in the way of time together, Clark. But we made promises to each other. You promised me respect, fidelity. I promised you…everything not already promised to my mission. You don't get to go off and die."

Bruce resumed his progress towards the door to his office as if his word was the last word on the subject. "You are coming with me," he said. "I've had the geneticists at WayneTech working on a solution that incorporates some of the Brainiac technology, a way to siphon off the excess solar energy contained in your cells. It looks very promising." He paused, settled his sunglasses on his face. "With all due _respect,"_ the word was a disdainful, aristocratic drawl, "to the scientists at P.R.O.J.E.C.T, I don't think one of them is half as motivated as I am to find a solution to this _temporary_ problem."

And Bruce turned with a flare of his coat and headed for the elevator, calling out, "Mr. Kent, chop, chop. I'm a busy man and _I don't have all day."_

Clark smiled, and followed, tripping over his own feet for the benefit of Mrs. Abernathy, figuring if he was going to die anytime soon, he'd rather die, like those scientists he had saved, trying to steal fire from the sun.


End file.
